


The Devil You Know

by lightinthehall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boy King of Hell Sam, Consort!Dean, Elevator Sex, Heaven and Hell politics, M/M, Mirror Sex, Sam is the fluffiest boy king, a re-imagining of Hell - Sam Winchester style, bodyguard!dean, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3042860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightinthehall/pseuds/lightinthehall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ Post Season 5 ] For the prompt: “Sam is the King of Hell. Dean is his consort and loyal bodyguard. Crowley is the advisor. Castiel is the diplomat, Meg is the head of the army.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil You Know

**Author's Note:**

> Written for osmalic for the[spn_j2_xmas](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) exchange! Thank you for your patience my dear, some things couldn't be helped - but I hope it was worth the extra wait. I wanted to do right by your awesome prompt. May you have a wonderful New Year's!

The world is flashing red and green.

Blink. _Red._ Blink. _Green_ – brighter and brighter as Dean gets closer to the decorated motel windows. _A bit early for Christmas lights,_ he distantly registers, vision dimming around the edges.

He wills himself to walk a little faster.

At best, his movements are stiff, and half-limping. His jacket’s filthy, a layer of thick muck cracking over the leather like fissures carving out the earth. Oh, just remnants of another exploding monster surprise. Nothing that won’t wash out of the material – he’s definitely been covered in worse.

The leather drapes heavily on him, an extra weight over his shoulders that he’s run out of energy to fight against. He used to – used to stand tall and walk proud and put on a good front for the world to see but what the fuck’s the _point_ anymore?

He’s so _tired_. He’s tired and forced to live in the world they saved.

Without – without.

He’s not far now. Luckily, he doesn’t have to pass the motel office on the way to the room; he doesn’t think even the gunk and grime of the last hunt could mask the steady flow of blood streaming down his side. He thinks about calling Lisa, just in case – but then again, the woman deserves a night free of worry.

In the motel room, collapsing onto the bed nearest the door, Dean thinks about putting pressure on the wound.

He closes his eyes.

0-0-0

“Dean.”

The voice has been repeating for a while now. Dean tries to tell the voice to go away, leave him _alone,_ and let him sleep, but he can’t seem to move his mouth just yet. His limbs are heavy with exhaustion, even his eyelids feel weighed down – but for some reason there’s no pain beyond the fatigue, just an overwhelming sense of _right_ flowing through him.

There’s a faint rustle of movement, and Dean comes to the abrupt realization that _someone is in his room_ , actually, fuck that –in his _bed_ , which, yes, should’ve been very obvious given the voice and the dip of the bed. He can’t be blamed for his complacency – after all, he had given up on ever hearing that voice ever again.

With some effort, his eyes open, slowly, slowly – he’s been disappointed before. His heart skips a beat seeing Sam anyway, curled up next to him on the bed, face so close that he can feel each exhale fan across his lips.

Apparently, his hallucinations have no concept of personal space whatsoever. This Sam’s hair falls over the pillow in a way that’s sure to give him bed head when he gets up. When he had been a kid, Sam would pad into the kitchen in the mornings, hair an epic mess, rubbing his eyes and asking for Lucky Charms.

“What’s so great about Lucky Charms anyway?”

“Wh-what?” The Sam-clone looks bewildered.

Dean sits straight up. His hallucinations have never _answered_ _back_ before.

“Sam?” His mouth forming the one, well-practiced word. Even as hope rises in him, Dean reaches beneath the pillow for a silver blade, holy water – anything – but his hand comes up empty, skimming on smooth, silk sheets he definitely doesn’t recognize.

He doesn’t take any of that in though, mind too overloaded with the sight of the flipped ends of brown hair, and the eyes – Sam’s damn hazel-green eyes – staring back at him with sharp intensity. It’s everything Dean’s been wanting for the past six months.

It can’t be real.

“Chr-“

“Not a demon, Dean,” the Sam-look-alike says, lifting his hands up casually; his expression is fond as he reaches out – and Dean flinches back, almost falling off the bed, but the Sam-suit catches his arm before he manages to flip himself over.

Dean yanks his arm back, hissing and trying to roll into a defensive stance. “Whatever you are, I’m going to make you regret wearing my brother’s face.”

“Dean, it’s me – okay, okay. I know trusting me is against everything we learned but – I can prove it?” And Dean has no idea how the impostor is going to do that, given the usual methods are all out, but it has Sam’s pleading expression down to a T. But something must relent in Dean’s posture because there’s a warm hand on his forehead and the room all but falls away as rose-gold light washes over him.

It’s not anything like visions of their past, like Dean was half-expecting, but instead a surge of a too-familiar _feeling_ – happyproudlovefearlonging – a jumble of emotion that’s always been package-and-parcel with Sam. It’s an ache at first, and Dean reflexively stamps it down, but the palm against his forehead burns and the feeling bursts through, front and centre - wonderful and terrifying all at once.

“Oh G- Someone. Sorry,” Sam backs off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to amplify it that much, but do you understand now?” Dean’s shudders as the remnants of emotion linger. He doesn’t remember his brother being able to mind-burst others with feelings but every single inch of Dean is still humming with every single aching _Sam_ feeling he remembers. It’s impossible but, he knows, he just _knows_ he wouldn’t have reacted that way with anyone else.

“Sam,” Dean whispers, broken with relief. “Sammy?” And with that, he’s being dragged across the bed and into the circle of his brother’s arms, wrapped so tight he thinks his ribs crack, but then again, he’s doing his fair share of rib-cracking hugging too.

“So I died? I’m in Heaven?” Even as the broken parts of him fall back into place, his mind still races with _how_.  Because Sam is – he can’t be in He – here.

“No. No, you’re not dead,” Sam says, voice rough. He looks away, frowning and eyes stormy with tightly controlled anger and sorrow. Sam’s hands brush the waistline of Dean’s pants, fingers slipping slowly underneath his shirt, and Dean jumps at the brush against his bandaged torso. “But you were close.”

Sam shuffles down and tucks his head underneath Dean’s chin, like he used to when they were kids, hot breath at the hollow of Dean’s throat and arms still draped over him. Sam’s soft hair tickling the sensitive skin below his jaw, as he burrows closer. “So close. Dean, how could you?”

Sam sounds so betrayed – no way is dean answering that one. It’s not like he set out to die, he was just. Careless. Tired.

“D’you fix me up Sammy?” Dean murmurs, marvelling at having Sam back again, his own fingers joining Sam’s where they’re tracing the neat row of stitches beneath the dressing. “Make me all better?”

His brother just clings to him quietly, and Dean feels the guilt ramping up with each silent second that passes.

“Look, Sam – “

A sharp knock at the door causes both of their heads to jerk up.

“Sir?” an unfamiliar voice calls from the other side of the wood. “They’re waiting for you.”

The knob turns and the door swings open, red light falling into the room before Sam throws an arm out and the door slams shut with a loud bang.

“I – we’ll be out in a minute!” Sam yells. Dean’s still underneath Sam, frozen in shock and wide-eyed because what the hell was _that_?

“Sam?” His brother finally lifts his face to meet his, and Sam looks unaccountably nervous.

“Dean, it’s. I can explain, okay? Or,” Sam stumbles over his words, backing off of Dean and sitting on the edge of the bed. The covers fall off Sam’s shoulders, revealing a dark suit – fitted – unlike their FBI disguises where they had to make do with first-glance estimations. The fabric clings to Sam’s tall frame perfectly, making his legs seem longer, if that’s even possible. “Or show you. Yeah, maybe showing is better.”

Sam crosses the room, which reminds Dean of those fancy, sprawling bachelor pads, with its matching leather furnishing and the way the bedroom just opens up into the living room space. Where in the world are they anyway?

Sam slips on sleek black shoes and quickly checks the full-length mirror by a long, leather sectional. He’s muttering under his breath, distracted.

“Weird choice for pyjamas, don’t you think, Sammy?”

“What? These? Oh, this is just standard – not, not for sleeping.” Dean watches Sam slide open a frosted glass door, pulling out a simple white dress shirt and black slacks. He drapes them carefully over the arm of the sectional, ducking back into the closet to pull out the same black shoes.

“We have to meet up with some people. These should fit,” Sam says, nodding at the outfit he’s laid out. “The bathroom’s through the other door, if you want to change there.”

Dean stares at him blankly.

“Why do I have to change?”

Sam just gives him the Look – the one complete with a tilt of his head and the _You’re really asking me that?_ eyebrow lift. And if Dean still had doubts if this really was his brother or not…

Dean looks down at his blood-stained plaid shirt and dirt-encrusted jeans and yeah, okay. He could use some clean clothes.

“Fine, but you aren’t getting me into one of those damn monkey suits.”

0-0-0

“So. These people you want me to meet. They don’t happen to be somewhere in this maze do they?”

Sam leads them down another hallway lined with identical doors, lit with the same red-tinged light and same striped wallpapers as the last five turns they’ve taken. Not that Dean minds all the walking, Sam is a warm presence against his side as they travel down the narrow hallways. The only thing missing is the impala – then Dean would be set for, well. All of eternity really. Dean’s in no rush to see anybody else though, especially since Sam is avoiding all his questions about where the heck they are.

 _It’s easier to show you, it’s okay, you’ll see,_ his brother keeps reassuring him. Dean wants to ask him how he kicked Lucifer off his back, how he got out of the cage, how he found Dean – but Dean’s half-afraid of the answers, and half-terrified the Universe will take Sam away again if he questions it too much.

Judging by the worried side-glances his brother keeps sending him, Dean isn’t the only one afraid of that.

Another turn and they’re in some sort of apartment entrance hall, light shining through the glass wall, but Dean can’t see outside. They push through the glass doors and they’re outside. The space is paved and open, enclosed by a stone balustrade railing that opens to a single foot bridge. The bridge is about the length of a street crossing, the only thing connecting them with a tall, imposing building that looks like it was plucked out of some city’s financial district. In fact, it’s the _only_ other building in this entire place, the rest of the horizon stretching out with a dark sea that meets a red sky.

The air is red-tinged and thick with heat, and inescapable dread and panic builds up in Dean. He’s never seen these buildings before but he remembers this place. He can’t seem to escape them, no matter how hard he’s tried to repress the memories.

He bursts into a run, _nonono_ repeating through his head, and he reaches the edge of the railing.

A sea of people below them spanning further than he can see – and there’s no blood, no screaming. They’re all – they’re all just – _standing_ there.

“Dean! Dean, wait!”

Dean rounds on him.

“Sammy, what - we’re in Hell and you didn’t say _anything_! Don’t you think that detail is a little fucking important?”

“I _told_ you I would explain,” Sam says, trying to catch Dean’s elbows, trying to bring him back from the edge. “It’s not what you think.”

“I thought you – I thought you were –“ _Saved_. The disappointment sinks through Dean like a blade. They’re together, at least, but Dean still can’t help being angry at the world, because Sam doesn’t deserve to be stuck here for eternity. He shouldn’t have ever had to come here in the first place.

“God damn it!” Dean yells, slamming his fists against the metal barrier. Not a single person looks up. “And what the fuck are they even doing? Holding service for Satan?”

Sam barely flinches at the reference. “They’re waiting in line.”

“In line for what? Torture? A dip in the pool of eternal fire?”

“No. Just – just waiting in line. Forever.”

Stopping mid-tirade, he looks over to where the masses are congregated. There _is_ a sort of system to the way everyone is standing. He can see the zig-zag of a queue and yeah- sees the wave shift as they all take a miniscule step forward.

“Sam – that’s. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.” Dean used to want to scratch out his own eyes, standing in line at convenience stores.

“I know,” Sam says somberly, even though the edge of his mouth curves up and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“This was you?” This was way too surreal. Even for Hell.

“Yeah, kinda.” The proud grin is out in full force now and Sam reaches out to grab Dean’s hand. Dean ignores the way his face heats, a little mystified by the bright smile on Sam’s face that he was sure he’d never see again. His brother starts tugging him across the bridge to the other, looming building. “Come on, I’ve got a lot more to show you.”

0-0-0

“Apparently being singled out by both Azazel _and_ Lucifer looks really good on Hell resumes. Go figure.” Sam nods at a few suit-clad demons (no need to hide the smoke-black eyes down here) and they bow their heads as Sam passes. Hackles up, and ready to throw down at the first sign of trouble, Dean is more than mildly disturbed. This is just so many levels of wrong.

Sam continues, “Nobody was left to run the place, so they made me in charge.” There’s that uncertain smile again, like Sam’s not sure if his confession to being Ruler of Hell would be the thing that sends Dean running. “So I did a little restructuring.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, _no duh_ , checking out the shining marble foyer, every other tile gleaming like burnt gold. It’s nothing at all like he remembers. Gone are the screaming souls, the blood-stained walls, the sulfurous air. Everything is absolutely pristine. Crossing the floor, they pass by more demons waiting by a set of three elevators. Upon seeing Sam, they do that bowing thing again, sending chills up Dean’s spine.

There’s a tour guide smile set on Sam’s face, and Dean wonders what’s behind it. He knows that Sam isn’t telling him the whole story, nobody stumbles upon the throne of Hell. Nobody wanders out of the Cage. But Dean is determined to roll with everything until he can figure out a way to get them out of here.

“Those are the main elevators. You can access most floors through those, but the others are waiting for us on the top floor, so we’ll just take my personal one,” Sam explains briskly, leading the way around the corner to an elevator with intricate golden markings swirled across the door.

 _Sam may have taken the gold theme too far_ , Dean thinks. The markings concentrate in the centre of the door, then curve up and out, and at first glance it reminds Dean of a turtle.

“It should respond to you,” Sam says, gesturing at the elevator. “Wanna try?”

“Uh – sure.” Dean takes a step forward, no clue what he’s supposed to be doing. He scans the wall for some sort of ‘up’ button or identification scanner, but sees none.

“Try putting your hand on it,” Sam tells him patiently. And really, how was Dean supposed to know _that_? Dean presses a hand onto cool metal and _whoa_.

The markings immediately glow hot like molten lava flowing through empty river beds. The complete design burns bright and full for one second, searing the image into Dean’s eyes before the elevator doors shift and slide open.

 _He knows that symbol_.

Reflexively, his fingers find his sternum, searching but coming up empty. He’s too aware of the sudden, rapid beat of his heart thumping against his hand. “The amulet.”

Sam coughs. “Shall we?” His face is bright red as he edges past Dean and into the elevator. Dean follows, and they stand in awkward silence as the doors close and the elevator starts to move.

He stands next to Sam quietly, glancing at the mirrored walls to spy the embarrassed flush lingering on Sam’s neck. And yeah, it’s incredibly cheesy to use the _amulet_ of all things as decoration, but he’s not sure what Sam has to be so embarrassed about. Maybe the reminder of their fight? It wasn’t one of their best moments, but then why design the door that way if he didn’t want to bring up awkward memories? Then again, Sam’s never been much of an artist, so maybe that big brain had finally ran out of ideas and had to start recycling old images for décor.

With a start, he also catches sight of their still-held hands in the glass. He must’ve really checked out during the first part of the Tour de Hell because how in the heck did he miss _that_? Dean’s fingers twitch, wanting to tug free, but Sam’s hand is large and warm and steadying and Dean just can’t bring himself to do it. Aw _shit_ , the demons must’ve seen him being dragged around like a pre-schooler on a field trip. Not even his previous rep as Master Tormentor is going to help him save face now.

The elevator dings, and Dean is greeted by the view of –

\- a completely normal looking office space. There are demons rushing about with paperwork in hand, leaning casually on cubical walls as they shred paper and chat with each other. There’s even a guy handing out mail from a cart, though the letter look a little charred. Everyone’s dressed in business casual.

 _Standard_ , Sam had said.

Despite his line of work, Dean doesn’t question his own sanity too often. Evil Christmas Gods? Sure. Haunted monster truck? Yeah, okay. But this. This is just.

There are demons. In _cubicles_. Doing _paperwork_.

“Sammy what did you _do_?”

Sam grins, and they start walking past demons all but tearing their hair out trying to read sheaths and sheaths of paper. “I told you, I did a little restructuring. Demons who step out of line have to serve in the office. You don’t have to do much, really. They just need to fill out Forms 003A to 003F. Appropriately, of course.”

Quite a few of the demons stop scribbling to stare at them as Sam and Dean walk past. It’s pretty unnerving and all he wants is to put some space between him and Sam, make themselves less of a spectacle (if that’s even possible). He’s so caught up in trying to find a way to disentangle his hand from Sam’s that he almost trips over his own feet when Sam unexpectedly shuffles closer. Sam catches him by the arm again, while Dean pointedly ignores the multitude of head-bowing that’s going on. Giving up, he lets Sam walk practically plastered to his side.

“Oh is that all?”

His brother hums agreeably, “Yup. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of fine print, hidden clauses that require extra forms, and who knows, some pages may be missing. And if the forms aren’t submitted properly, they have to take another number.”

He gestures to a number ticket machine next to a submission kiosk. The next little stub reads ‘9839’ while the ‘Now Serving’ window flashes the number ‘3’.

“Sam,” Dean breathes, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. First the eternal line now _this_. “That’s fucking _evil_.”

“I had free reign over almost everything, but apparently you aren’t allowed to take torture out of Hell.” The corners of Sam’s mouth twitch again, like he’s proud of his corporate devil-ways. He knows that Sam wanted to be a lawyer but damn – leave it to his nerd brother to turn Hell into an office nightmare. It’s just so Sam.

Sam’s large hand squeezes his, eyes searching Dean’s face. “Dean? Is this okay?”

 _The hand holding?_ Dean bewilderedly thinks, then his brain catches up. His brother wanted his approval of the big Hell reset. “Yeah,” Dean manages to croak out. He appreciates the lack of slab torture sure, but the fact that his _little brother_ redesigned the Underworld is still really freaking him out. “It’s – you did good, Sammy.”

Sam practically beams at him, pulling him into a tight hug that makes Dean’s heart stutter in his rib cage.

“I missed you,” Sam mumbles into his hair. And well, no one can blame Dean for clinging onto Sam like a lifeboat – for the life of him, his knees just aren’t holding up. For a moment, Dean can’t bring himself to care that his brother is Hell’s new sappy Overlord.

“Mm, how touching.”

“ _Meg_?” Dean’s head whips around and there she is, standing by an open office door. Her brown hair is tied up in a loose bun, and she’s wearing a black blazer vaguely reminiscent of the jacket she used to wear, complete with the matching pants. Her trademark smirk is ever-present, grating on Dean’s nerves. Sam pouts when Dean pushes away. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“What? No hug for me? I’m hurt,” Meg mocks, crossing her arms across her chest. “Mind if you and the Bossman get a move on already? Some of us have important things to do.”

“Oh I get it. Sam’s got you on desk duty, uh? How’s that going for you?” Dean asks smugly. If anybody deserved infinite amounts of paperwork, it’d be Meg.

She only smirks at him. “You have a lot of catching up to do Winchester. And Sir?” she says, addressing Sam with a tone that’s only _slightly_ less mocking. “You really should hurry. The angel is getting restless.” With a small laugh at the look on Dean’s face, she turns around, slipping back into the office, letting the door swing shut behind her.

0-0-0

Dean can feel everyone staring at him. When he had followed Sam into the room, he hadn’t known what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn’t Castiel and Crowley sitting at a long conference table drinking tea. Or rather, Crowley drinking tea, and Castiel staring blankly at a cup.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Crowley says drily, not surprised at all to see Dean. He’s in his usual fare, dark, pinstriped suit. He fits into the office setting almost perfectly. “Trying to converse with _this_ one is as fun as chewing on cardboard.”

Castiel ignores Crowley in favour of giving Dean a strained smile. “It’s good to see you, Dean.”

He hasn’t seen Castiel in ages, not since the final showdown. Dean just figured there was a lot of Heaven that needed to be fixed up, and there wasn’t much time to visit. It’s a relief to see Cas, especially here, but the angel looks about as uncomfortable as Dean feels. Most people fidget when they’re uncomfortable, Cas just ceases all movement.

“Cas,” Dean nods, saved from awkward handshakes when Sam tugs him back to his side. “How’re things?”

“They are progressing,” Cas says simply, ominous as ever. “Heaven is rebuilding, much like Hell has been. It is quite the change. I think you would approve – hopefully one day you will see it.”

“Oh that sounds – “ He’s interrupted by Sam’s arm wrapping around his waist.

“Thanks for coming everyone,” Sam says. “As you can see, Dean’s here.” His tone is business-like but his brother doesn’t quite manage to keep the sunshine smile off his face, and Dean has a difficult time not returning it.

Meg makes a gagging sound, ignoring the empty seats and settles herself against a wall. Pretending not to hear, Sam chooses the tall business chair at the head of the table, and Dean takes the seat to his immediate left. Sam’s leg finds his under the table, toe of his shoe resting against Dean’s. Dean does his best not to flush.

“Yes, congratulations to the happy couple,” Crowley says, frowning in disapproval. Sam doesn’t react to the snide remark - probably too unprofessional – so Dean does the glaring for the both of them. “Though he’s arrived a tad sooner than we had originally agreed on. The preparations weren’t quite ready.”

“I had to bump up the plans. Dean was – I wasn’t going to wait any longer,” Sam insists, mouth flattening into an unhappy line. His brother makes an impressive figure in his makeshift throne, sitting tall and commanding.

“Yes, well, the problem is, Heaven probably noticed your little foray onto Earth, and I’m not sure if even Fluffy Wings here can cover up for you.”

Castiel clears his throat. “It’s true, Sam. They’re looking for any reason to restart the war, and they’re monitoring Earth very closely. Your… signature isn’t the most subtle. As soon as they realize you were on Earth, they’ll check on Dean.”

“Wait, why should they care about me? I haven’t heard from an angel in months.”

Solemn, guilty eyes meet Dean’s. “Heaven isn’t to interfere with Earth, same as Hell.”

“So messing with the humans is an act of war?”

“As per the agreement Sam forged with Heaven for peace… yes.” Cas looks troubled. “Dean, you are still alive. You don’t belong in Heaven nor Hell at the moment. It’s only with Sam’s consent that you are even able to be here as you are. They could easily interpret your disappearance as an act of war.”

“Not to mention they still believe that you are their Champion, even with Michael gone,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. “Heaven’s going to want to recruit you.”

Sam’s eyes flash, and Cas continues his intense staring contest with his teacup. “It’s Dean’s choice, I will not allow them to force him.”

“They could’ve done some easy ‘recruiting’ when I was up top, don’t you think?” Dean asks.

“Due to the agreement, on Earth you’re off-limits to both parties, if one decides to snatch you – well, it’s Open Season,” Crowley says. “Which is _why_ I advised against the entire exercise in the first place. You were safer there.”

His cup shatters just as he was lifting it to his mouth, spilling tea down his suit. Crowley looks deeply unimpressed. “Sam, might I remind you that you made me Advisor for a reason.”

“And it wasn’t so that you could question my decisions.” Heat is coming off of Sam in waves, but Sam maintains his composure.

“It’s true, there are still the defectors in Hell after the restructuring. They could use him to get to you,” Meg adds. “Not that I’m a terrible Manager, but there are bound to be a few that slip through the cracks.”

“If anyone tries anything, they’ll be dealt with accordingly,” Sam says evenly. “Meg, I’ll leave it to you to announce Dean’s arrival. Make sure they know that he is absolutely off-limits.”

“No playing with the King’s consort, gotcha,” Meg smirks at Dean, just to irritate him. She saunters over to the door. “Got a 4’o clock with the boys, sorry. See you around Deano.” She waves without turning around.

“Cas, keep monitoring the situation in Heaven, keep us posted if they start to notice Dean’s gone.”

“Of course, Sam,” Castiel says, and with a blink, Cas disappears.

“Crowley, we’ll need to go over that list of loyalists again, make sure they’ve all been handled.”

“As you wish.” Crowley bows deeply, with his own sarcastic flourish before he too disappears, leaving Sam and Dean alone.

Dean crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair with his legs resting on the table top. Sam smacks his shin, “Feet off, dude.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the reproach, lowering his feet. He protests when Sam settles on the edge of the desk, legs bracketing Dean’s. “Oh, my feet can’t go on the table, but your ass can?”

“King of Hell,” Sam reminds him with a smirk.

“Yeah, about that,” Dean says, dread gathering in his gut. “You’ve been out of the Cage for a while, huh?”

After a pause, Sam responds, “Yes.”

“So why didn’t you – why didn’t you come find me sooner?” Dean asks. Sam looks stricken.

“I wanted to,” Sam says, eyes wide. “Dean, really, I wanted to. But nothing was ready.”

Dean stands up in frustration, raising his eye level higher than Sam’s, making him feel like the bigger brother again.

“You think I care if there was an office or apartment building to stay in, Sam? I never wanted you to be alone here,” Dean says, angrily. “You don’t have to put up new curtains to convince me. I know what Hell’s like, remember?”

“Exactly!” Sam throws his arms out. “I wasn’t about to bring you down here so you could relive those forty years again, Dean.”

Sam’s hands find Dean’s hips, tugging him closer and resting his forehead on Dean’s shoulder, long hair falling forward to hide his face. “You were never the same after I got you back, Dean. You had the worst nightmares - you could barely look at me.”

“You know, if – if you decide to stay…” Sam looks up at him with damp eyes, bright with anxiety. “I still need an official bodyguard. Sounds like a job for my big brother, right?”

Dean sighs, lifting a hand to the back of Sam’s head, letting his fingers comb through the smooth strands. Sam’s shoulders drop, relaxing at his touch. As if he was going to get rid of Dean so easily. “Frankly, I’d be offended if you gave the job to anyone else.”

Dean barely gets a glimpse of Sam’s overjoyed expression before he’s reeled in, knees knocking agains the table and Sam’s mouth pressed against his. Sam’s keeping him tight against his front, hand smoothing against the skin of Dean’s neck, legs caging his waist in. Suddenly, in a move Dean remembers from their childhood training, he’s on his back on the conference table with Sam standing, bent over him.

Sam plants soft, soft kisses onto his lips, whispering _DeanDeanDean_. He presses firmer each time, parting Dean’s lips with his tongue. His brother turns more demanding, and Dean is forced further against the table as Sam drops his full weight onto him, biting roughly at Dean’s lower lip. Dean jerks out of his stupor – _oh God what has he done this is his brother_ – simultaneously thrusting upwards as he kicks out.

They groan into each other’s mouths, and Dean gathers enough of himself to turn away, pushing at Sam’s chest. “Sammy – Sam, stop.”

Sam’s still trying to re-capture Dean’s lips before he blinks, realizing what Dean’s saying. He’s off the table- and Dean – in an instant, backing a few steps away, breathing heavily.

Dean’s still dizzy trying to comprehend what just happened.

“Sorry,” Sam blurts out, reaching for Dean before flinching and retracting his hand. “I’m sorry. Dean, please don’t leave.”

 Sam looks absolutely miserable now, turning away to face the wide office window, staring out into the reddened sky.

Dean swings his legs out. The kiss hadn’t felt wrong, in fact, Dean feels lighter than he’s felt in years. Sam’s always been able to do that for him. “So, it’s like that, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” Sam says quietly. “It is.”

“Is it because of Hell?” Dean asks.

“Wh- what?” Sam sputters, turning around fully.

“Is it because of some Hell-driven incestuous urges?” Dean clarifies, cocking his head.

“No! No, definitely not. This… I don’t know what it’s like for you, Dean, but it’s always been like this for me.”

Dean considers his words, looking for the panic and disgust, but finds none. Truthfully, it’s always been like this for him too. There have never been any limitations when it came to Sam. No lines, no boundaries. “And this bodyguard gig, it has some sort of Royal Consort addendum?”

Surprised that Dean isn’t outright rejecting him, Sam slowly catches on. “It isn’t in the official job description,” Sam says, looking at Dean hopefully. “But it could be, if you wanted.”

Dean hops off the table, coming up to Sam and wrapping his arms around him and tilting his head up ( _that’s_ going to take some getting used to) to kiss him. “I might get you to add it in.”

0-0-0

Their schedules are identical. Sam doesn’t go anywhere without Dean, which suits Dean just fine. They’re together from the time they wake up in Sam’s room in the apartment building, through each of Sam’s advisory sessions with Crowley, and overseeing management with Meg. Castiel shows up occasionally, though Heaven has little to say so far, too distracted with a few escaped rogue angels to notice Dean’s disappearance.

It gets to be routine, fast. He doesn’t even blink walking over the bridge of tortured souls anymore, though the bowing gets even weirder when demons start bowing to _him_ in the rare moments Sam isn’t around.

Frustratingly enough, Sam’s been determined to keep the pace in their relationship _slow_ , afraid to scare Dean off with too much too soon. Despite that, Sam is frequently kissing him – upon waking, outside of meetings, _inside_ of meetings. It’s like Sam’s got a thing for sloppy, office PDAs. Dean doesn’t find himself minding too much, though he prefers _not_ to have a demonic audience.

He also doesn’t want to tempt the crowds into thinking that he and Sam are vulnerable, and can be used against each other.

Predictably, there are a few demons that are unhappy with the regime change. Having learned to spot and disable threats – especially threats to Sam – since he was four years old, Dean fit into his new role. Sam had gifted him a set of ancient, inferno-forged blades. It turns out that treason is the only crime not tolerated under Sam’s rule, and the blades had the ability to fully execute demons in Hell, which was pretty damn cool.

Sam insists he keeps the white shirt, black slacks combo, even after Dean complained about the sulfur and blood stains he acquires doing his job. His brother doesn’t change his mind, but Dean does find a brand new set of clothes waiting for him after each incident.

0-0-0

Dean has no idea how Sam has the dedication to go to each meeting, and _pay attention_ the way he does. By the end of another long day, Dean’s ready to climb walls, wondering if Sam could Hell-magic some coffee into their apartment suite. They’re crossing the impressive gold-gilded foyer when a silver arrow slices through the shoulder of his dress shirt. He’s immediately shoved onto the floor and a wild flare of heat flashes over his back, singeing the bare strip of skin above his collar.

“ _How dare you?”_ And that’s _Sam_ , hissing and angry like Dean’s never heard before. He struggles to get up, but some unseen force is keeping him down and all he can manage is to turn his head to the side. Sam’s emanating fire and rage, air around him shimmering with heat. His arm’s up, fist half-closed. Following his glare, Dean sees a white-winged angel pinned and choking against the marble wall.

“ _You think you can take what’s mine?_ ” Sam’s voice echoes in the room, dark with power. The angel is silent, staring boldly at Sam through his pain. Dean is trembling just being in close proximity to Sam, he can’t imagine what it would be like to be the focus of his power right now. Sam hadn’t even used a hint of the power that Dean remembers from the first day, when Sam forced the door shut. But another flare of heat and a wing twists into itself, causing the angel to finally cry out.

“Abomination,” he snarls between gritted teeth. “You will corrupt the Chosen. I will see you burn in the Hell that you created.”

“ _You first.”_ The angel is peeled away from the wall, held in suspension, before being thrown into an open elevator. The doors slam shut, gaps seeping red light before disappearing.

Dean knows the moment Sam shifts his focus, a wave of heated pressure travelling from head to toe as Sam’s gaze sweeps over him. His eyes are a terrifying burnt gold, radiating Hell. He’s shaking. “Sam?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says in that terrible voice, stepping towards him. He stops to dislodge the shining silver arrow stuck in the floor a few feet away from where Dean’s sprawled out. It audibly snaps in his hand, breaking into dust. “ _Heaven thinks they can steal you_.”

Dean’s voice is hoarse, strained. “Aw, come on Sammy. Shooting me isn’t exactly an effective recruitment tactic.” The restraining pressure lifts, _finally,_ and Dean tries to push up onto his knees when he finds himself trapped against Sam’s chest. The heat is nowhere near as bad as before, but the air around Sam is still sweltering, Mexico-in-the-summer hot.

“ _It would have killed you, then you would have gone to Heaven. I would have never seen you again_ ,” Sam says, brushing Dean’s hair back and crushing Dean to closer to him.

“Not leaving you, Sammy,” Dean says, echo of a promise.

“ _You chose me_ ,” Sam agrees. With a start, Dean realizes he’s being dragged back the way they came. He stumbles as he’s pushed backwards into Sam’s private elevator, catching himself on the mirrored wall, watching Sam approach. The heat is even more unbearable in the small space.

“Sam, we’re safe now, you can turn down the heat.”

Soft kisses are pressed to the back of his neck, the tip of Sam’s nose edging in behind Dean’s ear, nuzzling him. Sam’s body is a long line of heat at Dean’s back. “ _I can’t_.”

It’s like being doused with ice water. “What do you mean, you _can’t?_ Sam you can control this, I know – I know you can.”

Hands settle on Dean’s hip, flutter up his sides before stroking up, then down. “ _Might need help_.”

“Yeah, Sam – whatever, whatever you need,” Dean stutters out, breath catching when Sam bites down on a sensitive spot on his neck.

His head is turned to the side, and it’s an awkward angle, but Sam is determined to kiss him – the push of his tongue making Dean groan and arch closer. There’s a clatter of buttons and Dean’s ruined shirt falls off, along with Sam’s. The exposure provides little relief, the skin-to-skin contact acting like a direct current - more intense than before and Dean feels the heat like a brand along his back.

Sam breaks the kiss to latch onto newly revealed skin, testing the territory with his teeth and his lips, but not truly biting down. A hand sneaks to the front of his pants, deftly undoing the button and tugging down the zipper. Dean sucks in a breath, when he’s cupped in that too-warm grasp, bucking forward helplessly. “Please –“

“ _Beautiful. All mine_.” Fingers tease at the small of his back, the top of his pants and boxers slowly being pulled down over his ass. They make it as far as his knees before large hands squeeze at the rounded flesh, smoothing over it then pulling them apart. Slick fingers tap at Dean’s hole, circling twice before one pushes in. Twisting in Sam’s grasp, Dean’s too light-headed to be embarrassed by the noises coming out of his mouth, muttering about _Hell magic_.

A second finger slips in, stretching Dean out, and he’s struggling to stay up. Sam notices, hooking his free arm around Dean’s waist to steady him, angling Dean perfectly to catch Sam’s golden eyes watching him hungrily through the mirror. Another finger works into him, and Dean gasps out when flashes of pleasure race up his spine, aware that Sam is drinking in every single reaction. He glances quickly to where his own erection is pressed against the smooth glass, leaking at the slit and leaving smudges as Dean jerks in his Sam’s hold.

 _“My big brother_ ,” Sam sighs, pulling out his fingers. Dean barely registers the zip and shuffle of Sam’s pants - can only shakily exhale when he feels the head of Sam’s dick at his stretched entrance. Sam rests his face against Dean’s, forcing him to look at Sam as he pushes in, opening Dean up with his cock. Dean’s gasping at the intense flash of heat, Sam’s eyes flaring as he burns his way into him. Dean writhes  - hadn’t known he could feel so hot inside, this intense, when Sam finally bottoms out. Soon, he begins to thrust, quickly gaining speed and momentum, eyes glowing brighter and brighter as he goes.

Sam holds his gaze, Dean’s face pressing into the mirror as Sam pounds into him. He finds the angle that makes Dean moan loudly, muscles constricting around him. Dean’s never felt so sensitive and strung out, he’s delirious with pleasure, lost in the heat with Sam. The desperation is building up in him, and Sam can tell, whispering _comeformecomeforme_ into Dean’s ear, sending Dean over the edge with hard, angled thrusts.

0-0-0

Sam’s hazel eyes greet him when he comes to. He’s curled up in bed next to him, just like the day Dean first woke up in Hell.

“Dean,” his brother says, voice concerned. He looks inexplicably guilty, but considerably more _Sam_ and less _Hell King_. Dean’s never been more relieved in his life.

“I’m fine. Glad you’re back with me though, a few more rounds like that and I’d be Heaven-bound for sure.” Dean had meant it as a joke, but Sam’s eyes darken with guilt.

“I never left,” he says softly. “Dean, I’m so sorry – back there, it was a–“

“Side effect of Hell?”

Sam pauses. “You could say that.”

“And what we did? That helped?”

“Yes,” Sam answers uncertain. “I’m sorry –“

“Sounds like a job for the consort of the King,” Dean says seriously, rolling onto Sam and straddling his waist.

Sam’s face is frozen for a moment, before breaking into a huge grin, hazel eyes shining with happiness.

“It does,” he says, tracing Dean’s hip with his fingers. “But Dean, don’t – we still have to talk about this.”

Dean smiles, slyly kissing Sam before resting their foreheads together. “You’ll have to write that into the job description first Sammy.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading!
> 
> There is so much more that I wanted to address for this prompt, and I hope I can re-visit this 'verse and explore it. There's definitely more to Sam than he's been letting on, and Dean's only really seen the tip of the Corporate Hell iceberg.


End file.
